


Picturing You

by tryslora



Series: Blow Job Friday [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Blow Jobs, Glory Hole, Magical Portraits, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Portraits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:29:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, the question is… if you cut a hole into one of the portraits and stick your hand in, where does it go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picturing You

**Author's Note:**

> This was written and posted for [Blow Job Friday](http://torino10154.livejournal.com/631450.html) as hosted by torino10154 on Livejournal. I asked for prompts on both LJ and tumblr, and this one came from nicevenn on LJ: _Sounds fun. As for a prompt, how about a cleverly-placed glory hole in a portrait at Hogwarts? Whatever pairing(s)._ Nicevenn, thank you so much for such a creative prompt (I don't think I ever would've thought of a glory hole in a portrait!). I hope you enjoy this. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Harry Potter, I just like to play with them.

“So, the question is… if you cut a hole into one of the portraits and stick your hand in, where does it go?” Seamus gestures with his drink, the fire whiskey sloshing, a deep amber in the candlelight. “Dean, you know all about art. Tell us.”

“I don’t know magical portraits, not yet.” Dean lies on his back, head pillowed in Seamus’s lap as he looks up. “Give me about five years, then we can have this same drunk conversation again.”

“Wouldn’t it just go _through_ the portrait?” Ron asks. “You’re talking about a hole in a bit of canvas. You drill a hole, your hand would be on the other side.”

“Are you sure?” Harry’s brow is furrowed. “Can you even put a hole in a portrait? They’re magical, so I’d think they might be protected. Neville, what d’you think?”

Neville goes quiet when his roommates all look at him. They’ve only been back at Hogwarts for a week, trying a second time to get through their final year before NEWTs, and they’re celebrating the end of the first week with a round of drinks in their room. It’s familiar having his roommates back, as if the war had never happened. However, having a drink in his room is unfamiliar, and the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach is disturbing. He tosses back his drink and sets the glass down. “I wouldn’t know,” he mutters. “I’m about Charms and plants, remember? Not magical art.” He pushes to his feet, refusing to look at the others because if he does, they might remember the tunnel through the portrait in Hogsmeade. “Need the loo.”

He manages to make it out the door, and by the time he stands in the hallway, one hand against the door, he can hear that they’ve moved on to another topic, something about ghosts, and the tension slides out of his shoulders.

Neville doesn’t want to talk about the portraits. He can’t answer the question exactly. He doesn’t know _how_ they work. But he does have a vague idea about _what_ happens.

And now that he’s got it on the mind, he wants to go find his portrait.

Not _his_ portrait. It’s not a portrait of _him_.

But it’s the one that started it all.

He makes his way through the halls, nodding at the Prefect who starts to say something about the hour, then remembers that the self-named 8th year students have the run of the school. His travels take him winding up, then down, through a maze of passageways that seem almost random, but Neville knows the exact steps that take him to this location. This is the only way here; he’s tried coming at it from other directions, but nothing else works.

The portrait hangs low at the end of the hall; if there were a person in it, they’d probably stand about as tall as Neville, and they might be eye to eye.

There’s never a person in it.

It looks just like a blank frame, aside from the tear in the canvas right about waist high, and it hangs against the stone of an outside wall, next to a window.

Neville walks up to it and sticks his fingers through the hole, like he always does.

He feels something wet lick at them on the other side, imagines the soft slurping sound, just like he always does.

He glances behind himself, makes sure he really is alone in this very random, remote part of the castle, then he works his robes open and shoves his pants down. It’s strange, he knows, but _this_ is how he learned that portraits are something more than paint on a page. _This_ is how he learned that the mortal world and the one of art could interact, and from this he learned to travel through the portraits and escape the castle into Hogsmeade.

All because of this portrait, this hole, and a dose of exhausted curiosity during the war.

He remembers hearing a voice when he’d stuck his fingers in the hole for the first time, asking if he wanted to be sucked off. He couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, and it was paint anyway, and he’d just been so _tired_ and _lonely_ that he’d figured _what the fuck_. He’d stuck his prick in and hadn’t expected much. Now, though. Now he knows exactly what to expect, and just how good the tongue on the other side of the canvas is.

He comes to hardness quickly and he presses close, prick fitting neatly through the tear in the fabric, entering a hot, wet space on the other side. He can only fit his prick through, not his balls, so he dips one hand down, holds his own balls while a tongue flicks across his slit and a warm hand pushes his foreskin back to tease him.

It feels so fucking good. So much better than his hand, and so much more than he’d ever get any other way. “Oh fuck,” he whispers, and there’s a soft laugh that vibrates around his prick.

He used to think there was no point in talking. It’s _paint_. But you can talk to a portrait, and they’ll even talk back sometimes. And he thinks whoever it is on the other side of this blank canvas likes to hear it. Which sounds strange, but Neville’s walked through a portrait, so he can’t _just_ think of it as paint.

“Feels good,” he whispers, hips jerking forward, thrusting into the warmth of an unseen mouth. “You’re so fucking good at this. Love the way you suck my cock.”

His skin is hot and flushed just from saying the words, but the low sound of a whine, and the way a tongue slides along the underside of his prick is good feedback. He thrusts again, pushing hard, fumbling to caress his own balls, and it’s _so good_. 

“You want me to come in your mouth,” he murmurs. “You love the taste of it, don’t you.” The tongue slides around the head of his cock, sucks it hard in, taking him fully until he feels himself pressing against the back of a throat. “Oh fuck, keep doing that, yeah, I’m going to fill your mouth up.”

He feels silly when he starts, but by this point, it just feels good. It’s so hot and wet and warm, and whoever it is knows how to do this, knows how to _make_ it good. They know just how to use his foreskin and their tongue, how to swallow him down until Neville can’t stop himself any more. He feels the way it shivers in his thighs, the way his balls draw up tight. His hips stutter and he fucks forward, body pressed against the canvas while he pushes into a throat that contracts around him.

And that’s it, he’s coming with a groan, spurting into a mouth that swallows him down and licks him clean until he has to withdraw because he’s just too sensitive.

He tucks himself back into his pants and closes his robes while he tries to get his breathing back under control. Then he leans one hand against the painting that isn’t there, and lets his forehead fall against the smooth, blank surface. “That was fucking brilliant,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

There’s a low laugh, and the voice that answers is husky. “You and your cock are welcome back any time.”

“Might just take you up on that. Thanks.”

Neville turns his back on the portrait, tries not to think that he just fucked painted oils that he can’t even see. It doesn’t sound like any of the portraits that he knows, but it’s _someone_ back there. Something, somehow, and it feels so real.

He wonders what would happen, sometimes, if he wedged open the tear and stepped into _this_ portrait. Where would it take him and who would he see? And he wonders, sometimes, if it’s ever possible for the person trapped inside to come out, like he did when he traveled to Hogsmeade.

But he’s also pretty sure that those thoughts lead to madness, so he simply walks away and treads the circuitous strange path back into the parts of Hogwarts that are familiar, makes his way back to the life of an 8th year student. He’ll go back, he figures, but he also knows that that part of his life will always belong to that obscure corner of the castle, and that someday he’ll have to leave it behind.

Until then, though, he’ll always wonder who’s behind the picture, every time he visits. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
